The Art of Deduction
by FemaleChauvinist
Summary: Holmes has called Watson unobservant once too many times. But is he just seeing him in the wrong situations?


**Disclaimer: **While the attempt has been made to be medically accurate, some artistic license has been taken, and statements made by Watson are not to be regarded as authoritative.

Recognizable characters and plotlines are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; all original characters and story © 2019 FemaleChauvinist.

_Do not post without permission. Do not copy/print without including the above disclaimer in its entirety._

**A/N: Okay, so I know I said I was going to "disappear" for a while, but then this story came up in my editing rotation, and since it's ready, there's no reason to wait on purpose! Barbie**

_Watson married_

"As usual, Watson, you have seen everything and observed nothing."

I felt my jaw clench tightly as I turned sharply from the window where we had been watching one of the passers-by. "I didn't come here to be insulted, Holmes."

When my professional round had taken me near Baker Street, I had thought I would stop in for a few minutes to see my old friend. He had seemed glad to see me, but as he immediately inveigled me into displaying my ineptitude at guessing a man's occupation from the cut of his suit, I had wondered if he merely wanted someone to admire his own skill. Had he truly been glad to see _me_, or would anyone suitably impressed have done as well? Not that I would have minded once more being impressed if he had not first insisted on my trying my hand. I found myself wondering why I had even bothered to try.

"Anyway, Mary's expecting me home for supper, so I'd best be off," I concluded.

"Give her my regards," Holmes said stiffly, apparently affronted that I had taken offense at his words.

I merely nodded, letting myself out without a farewell.

**oOo**

I did not see Holmes for several days, and felt a twinge of annoyance whenever I thought of our last exchange. But I was kept busy enough not to think of it often, save for the one time when my route once more took me past Baker Street. I hesitated, wanting in spite of everything to drop in on Holmes and hear him tell of his latest case.

But I shook myself and continued on; I had no wish to be told once again how singularly stupid and unobservant I was.

It was after office hours when I heard the sound of a cab pulling up outside and mentally sighed. A doctor was used to working at all hours, of course, but I had been hoping for a quiet dinner with Mary tonight.

"Dr Watson, sir?"

"Yes, Jane?"

"It's Mr 'Olmes to see you, sir."

I nodded, attempting to hide my surprise. "Send him in, then," I said a little brusquely.

She dropped a brief courtesy. "Very good, sir."

I knew better than to think he had come to apologize; I doubted he even understood what he had done to offend me — if he even fully realized he had. For a man who so prided himself on his powers of observation, I thought bitterly, he could be amazingly dense about certain things. More likely he expected me to drop everything and join him on one of his cases. Well, this time I wouldn't, I decided; he needn't think his work was so much more important than my own. Sometimes I wondered if he even remembered at times that I was a practicing physician and not a man of leisure.

But as soon as I saw Holmes in the doorway, I realized that it was in that capacity he had come to me this evening.

"Good evening, Watson," he greeted me.

"Good evening," I responded, still a little shortly. "How did you hurt your arm?"

He blinked in some surprise. "How did you know…?"

He didn't have enough sense of humour to be baiting me, I decided; for once the shoe truly was on the other foot. "Elementary, Holmes," I replied, unable to resist that small dig though I was already softening in the face of his pain. "I can see you're in pain by the tightening of your eyes, and the way you're holding your arm, you've either injured it or you're guarding your belly. There's no hunching in your posture as there would likely be if you were suffering from abdominal pain, so I surmise it's the arm."

Holmes was staring as if he had never seen me before. "For once, Watson, you've hit it exactly; I believe my arm is broken."

"Come sit down, then, and let me have a look; how did it happen?"

"I had a bit of a run-in with a lamppost," Holmes explained, a brief smile tightening his features for a moment.

"The lamppost won, I gather," I said wryly. "How about the suspect I assume you were chasing?"

"The constable at the end of the block caught him," Holmes said. "The police may be stupid about who committed a crime, but I will say this for them; when they get hold of a suspect — rightly or wrongly — they're as tenacious as bulldogs."

I nodded, smiling slightly.

Holmes winced as I helped him out of his overcoat, then unfastened his cuff and rolled up his sleeve to expose a swollen forearm.

I felt the area as carefully as I could, determining that he had indeed broken the smaller of the two arm bones.

I looked up at his face. He was trying to be as stoic as ever, and perhaps someone who knew him less well would not have noticed a difference. But I could see that his features appeared paler and more drawn than usual; he was biting his bottom lip where he thought I wouldn't be able to see — or perhaps not observant enough.

"Homes…have you used cocaine recently?" I asked it bluntly, knowing that to attempt to soften the question would only annoy him.

As it was, his eyes darkened in anger — as I had expected they would; he regarded his drug habit as none of my business, either as his friend or a doctor.

"I'm sorry, Holmes, but I have to know," I insisted firmly. "I can't give you morphine for the pain if you already have cocaine in your system."

"Ah…I see. In that case, Watson, I assure you I have not indulged in the past twenty-four hours."

He was not saying anything one way or the other about the period before that, I understood, still holding it to be none of my business. He could even be lying about the past twenty-four hours, but I knew it would have been unlike him to take the drug while investigating a case.

Still I hesitated a moment, wondering about the wisdom of giving morphine to a drug addict in any case. But he did need the pain relief however much he might be loath to admit it, and with a sigh I filled the syringe and injected it deftly into his arm.

"That should start working in a few minutes," I assured him.

"Ah. Thank you, Watson."

"I'll splint it for you now and give you a sling," I continued. "Stay for supper with us; afterward I'll put on a cast if the swelling's gone down enough. And then you might as well just stay the night; your hours are so irregular that Mrs Hudson won't worry."

"Your nightclothes wouldn't fit me, Watson," Holmes pointed out, obviously tempted to accept my offer rather than endure the pain of another jostling cab ride.

"No, but I have a dressing gown of yours that was packed with my things by mistake when I moved out; I've been meaning to return it but never found the opportunity."

Holmes shrugged the shoulder of his good arm. "Oh, well, then!" he said a little ungraciously, though I could see the relief in his eyes.

The break was a simple one, an easy matter to set and securely fasten to the splints. "Better?" I questioned, adjusting the sling around Holmes' neck to support the injured limb.

"Much. Whatever your shortcomings as a detective, Watson, you have nothing against you as a doctor."

"I never _claimed_ to be a detective," I retorted, turning aside to hide my embarrassment at his unaccustomed praise.

"No…" Holmes appeared thoughtful for a moment, then dismissed it with a short laugh. "I suppose Mrs Watson must be keeping supper hot for you; shall we go in, then?"

"By all means," I agreed, hoping that the meal served would be something which spared Holmes the indignity of having to have his meat cut up for him.

To my relief, the meal of soup followed by a main dish of fish was easy enough for Holmes to eat one-handed. Indeed, he handled his fork as easily as if he ate one-handed every day of his life.

After the meal, I ushered him back into my office to cast the break, easing his shirt off first to save having to cut it off later.

He spent an hour or so sitting in front of the fire with us, smoking the cigar Mary professed not to mind, though I knew she would be airing the room out tomorrow. But I could see the pain and tiredness from the injury in the corners of his eyes, and got to my feet, saying I would show him to his room.

I offered my aid in undressing so matter-of-factly that he didn't try to refuse. Once he was in bed, I checked his pulse, then mixed a small dose of laudanum and watched until he drank it.

"Thank you, Watson," he murmured languidly.

I nodded. "I'll be right down the hall, so call if you need anything." I would check on him at least once, to make sure his pain hadn't increased to the point of keeping him awake. "Good night."

"Good night," he responded. I quietly slipped from the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind me.

**oOo**

"I think I'm going to invite myself to Baker Street for a few days," I remarked to Mary a short time later.

Mary looked up from her knitting in some surprise. "A broken arm doesn't require constant medical supervision, surely."

"Medical supervision, no," I admitted. "But he's going to need help with everyday tasks, at least at first, and I'm the only one he'd ask or even accept that help from."

It was true, but not my main reason; I couldn't tell Mary that reason because I hadn't told even her of his cocaine use. Holmes would need regular doses of painkiller for at least a few days, but I couldn't simply give a drug addict the bottle and trust him to follow my prescribed dosage. Also, I had to be certain he wasn't combining the laudanum and morphine with cocaine.

"Anstruther will take my practice I'm sure," I continued.

Mary sighed. "Very well," she agreed. "I'll miss you, of course, but it's true you're the only close friend he has; if he needs you of course you should go."

"Thank you," I told her sincerely, knowing that her agreement was not given at all grudgingly. "I'll come back as soon as I think he can get along without me." Which would be when his level of pain could be controlled by packets of headache powder, and no sooner.

Mary laughed. "You will…if he doesn't talk you into helping him on another case in the meantime!"

Ah; she knew both of us too well. But for tonight, I was content to sit beside the fire with my wife.

**oOo**

Two days later I sat reading in our rooms at Baker Street, having settled in as if I never left. One good thing about Holmes not understanding how he had offended me was that there was no awkwardness between us unless I chose to let there be — and I was beginning to think I had been too quick to take offense.

"Watson, come tell me what you make of this gentleman," Holmes called from the window where he was once more observing the passers-by.

I nearly shook my head as I set aside my medical journal and got to my feet, wondering if Holmes derived some kind of twisted pleasure from hearing my faulty deductions. But I moved to the window with only a trace of annoyance; if it would help keep him from the destructive boredom that led to his use of cocaine, I was willing to let myself be made a fool of once again.

I spoke as confidently as I could, but I knew that I was really only guessing. I could describe the man's appearance in detail, and would likely be able to recognize him again if Holmes wished me to. But no matter how much his deductions always made sense when he explained them, I was no closer to being able to come to them for myself than I had been when we first met.

But for once, Holmes didn't express disappointment in my lack of mental acuity. "And now, what would your diagnosis be?"

"I beg your pardon?" I questioned, caught off guard by the unfamiliar question.

"If he came into your office, what would you expect to treat him for?" Holmes clarified.

I took another look at the man, feeling now more within my depth. "Asthma…no, heart trouble."

"Indeed. Your other attempts were as far off the mark as usual, but I rather fancy you're closer now. How did you come by that diagnosis?"

I paused to think about the subtle signs I had noticed without consciously observing. "He keeps stopping to catch his breath; that would indicate asthma or some other lung ailment. But he pressed a hand to his chest just now; a man might do that if he were having trouble breathing, but it's more likely with the chest pain of heart trouble, which could also cause shortness of breath."

"Excellent, Watson," Holmes murmured. "I begin to realize I've underestimated you."

Any other time I might have embarrassed myself in the pleasure of his finally recognizing that others beside himself were capable of accurate observations, but now I was too focused on the man outside and I indeed barely heard him. "I'm getting my bag and going out there, Holmes; he looks about to collapse."

"Get your bag by all means, but you needn't go out," Holmes said lazily. "I rather fancy he's coming here, and you shall have ample opportunity to prove that in your own sphere, your powers of observation and deduction are as good as mine."

The End

_I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! _

_Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie_


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